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She could ride a horse a-straddle,
She is healthy, hearty, happy,
A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head, Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said: “Let me see,_I should think that this milk will
procure One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure. “Well, then, stop a bit, it must not be forgotten,
Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten;
But if twenty for accident should be detached,
It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched.
“Well, sixty sound eggs, no, sound chickens, I
“But then there's their barley: how much will they need? Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed, So that's a mere trifle; now then, let us see, At a fair market price how much money there’ll
“Six shillings a pair—five—four—three-and-six,
To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix;
Now what will that make? fifty chickens I said,
Fifty times three-and-sixpence—I’ll ask Brother Ned.
“O, but stop, -three-and-sixpence a pair I must sell 'em;
Well, a pair is a couple, now then let us tell 'em;
A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain!)
Why, just a score of times, and five pair will remain.
“Twenty-five pair of fowls—now how tiresome it is That I can't reckon up so much money as this! Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess, I’ll say twenty pounds, and it can't be no less. “Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow, Thirty geese, and two turkeys, eight pigs and a sow; Now if these turn out well, at the end of the year, I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 'tis clear.”
Forgetting her burden, when this she had said,
The maid superciliously tossed up her head;
When, alas for her prospects! her milk-pail descended,
And so all her schemes for the future were ended.
This moral, I think, may be safely attached,—
“Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched.”
“THERE'S A BOWER OF BEAN-
There's a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's
greens; In the time of my childhood 'twas terribly hard
To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.
That bower and its products I never forget,
I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,
No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used
to wave, But some beans had been gathered, the last that
hung on, And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
And thus good to my taste as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard.
I will not have the mad Clytie,
The pea is but a wanton witch,